


holocene

by Jo_B



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Episode: s05e01-02 Redux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26457076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jo_B/pseuds/Jo_B
Summary: Everything is perfectly okay and fine and alright, except for the fact that he is dying. Perhaps not so literally, but the feeling does not seem so far off. // A few moments of reflection post-Redux.
Kudos: 8





	holocene

**Author's Note:**

> TW for mention/implication of suicidality
> 
> I thought show was quick to glaze over one of the more rock-bottom moments of Redux - so I wanted to dwell on it a little bit. It's been awhile since I've seen the episode, so if I've left any major details out just lmk

Everything is perfectly okay and fine and alright, except for the fact that he is dying. Perhaps not so literally, but as he pulls the door to his apartment shut, locks both locks and fixes the chain, and throws open the nearest window, rushing for a gasp of fresh air – the feeling does not seem so far off.

Scully is perfectly okay and healthy and fine and healthy and alright and healthy and safe and healthy. He could get it tattooed, embroidered, printed on a billboard for all of D.C. to see, and he _would_ if it might make the moment last forever, or at least long enough for the sight of her, sick and dying, to not be the only one he sees when he closes his eyes.

If he’s having trouble believing it, he blames the echo of chaos ringing in his ears and the improbability of it all – of Scully surviving, of he himself standing in his living room, relatively unscathed. It is a weight sitting square on his shoulders, crushing him. He catches sight of bloodstains in the hardwood floor. He catches sight of his gun on the coffee table, out of its holster.

He wonders about this moment. Is it the most danger Scully has ever been in? Or the safest she will ever be again? As long as she chooses to stand with him, a perfect fool drowning in a sea of perfect lies – Mulder wonders if it could, in fact, be both.

When he was sixteen and crashed his mother’s car for the first time, spun out into the shoulder by the side of the highway, there was a single moment that stretched for hours, months, years, the rest of his life. The moment of calm before the realization sets in. White-knuckling the steering wheel, wide-eyed, and fresh from his very first brush with death, he patiently waited and took stock – no broken bones, no blood, no concussion – before he allowed himself to cry. A different angle, and he could have been t-boned at full speed. A few miles ahead, and he could have cleared the guard and gone barreling, barreling down into the woods below.

A few minutes’ difference last night, and Mulder might have had a bullet in his brain before he could ever find the chip to save Scully’s life.

We all come so painfully close some days.

He idly wonders what Scully’s life would be if she never set foot in the Bureau’s basement – and what keeps her from wondering the very same thing. In the beginning, he saw the idealism shining through everything she did, the nerve, the passion for justice. Dana Scully is a woman of principle, and, as he would come to discover, unwavering loyalty when she finds a cause to believe in.

Maybe in the beginning, his cause _was_ something to believe in. Now? He’s sure there’s a joke to be made about Stockholm Syndrome if he tries hard enough.

He has stolen Scully’s career, her sister, her health, countless hours of sleep, and nearly her life. A headstrong, insufferable leech – he imagines her without the X-Files, happy, healthy, teaching doctoral students at Quantico. Except, that wasn’t what she wanted, was it? Violent crimes, then. Homicide division. She’d be running the place in no time.

With a heavy sigh, he lets himself fall gracelessly onto the couch and loosens his tie. Would it be better or worse if the very last thing he stole was this one, single choice?

It’s been days since he’s slept.

Everything in his apartment is a copy of a copy of a copy of what it is, from the gun on the coffee table to the blood stains on the floor, the books lining his shelf to every fish in the tank. He’s in familiar territory: wired, buzzing from days, weeks of straight adrenaline, but eyes heavy with exhaustion. He won’t sleep on his own.

He walks past his un-holstered gun, the faded blood stains, the copy of a copy of his living room and fishes his sleeping pills from the bathroom drawer.

Outside, the night is pitch dark and oppressive and brimming with reminders that Scully is perfectly okay and safe and healthy, but she was moments away from being gone. Inside, the door is locked three times and the window is open wide and everything is perfectly okay and fine and alright, even if it’s not.

* * *

He finds her as she is packing her things to leave, still pale, tired, but clearly ecstatic to be going. The calm, dignified air of defeat she’d worn on her face just a few days ago has been replaced by an electric excitement in her face, her eyes, every movement she makes.

She smiles as he walks in, then tilts her head to really look at him.

“Good morning,” Scully says, zipping her bag. There is an odd, scrutinizing expression on her face. “I was going to ask where you’ve been, but you look like you’ve just woken up from a coma.”

And he chuckles, the least bit sheepish. His hair sticks up in a few different directions, his eyes still glazed with sleep, but he neither confirms nor denies.

“Well, good,” she adds. It’s been a few days since she’s seen him. “About time you slept.”

He says nothing to that, but as she swings her bag over her shoulder, he descends.

“Let me get that,” he starts, but – true to form – she swats his hand away in one fluid motion.

“Absolutely not,” she says, a quiet snap, but grinning nonetheless. He raises his hands in performative concession: Scully has almost always gotten her way with him, and she will continue to do so for the rest of his life.

Mulder is oddly quiet as they walk to his car, his movements slow and methodical as he unlocks the car and opens the door for her, a perfect gentleman. She eyes him strangely, but says nothing about it.

She learned early on that asking Mulder, in direct words, “Are you okay?” is best reserved for only the most catastrophic occasions: his father’s death, his mother’s stroke, some life-threatening injury. In those moments, he’d look her in the eye, take a deep, shuddering breath, and shake his head, each time a stunning display of honesty.

In all others, she receives a laugh, a tired sigh, or a simple, robotic, “Of course.”

After everything they’ve been through – this morning feels like a toss-up. As they reach her apartment, Scully takes one more look at him and strongly suspects that his plans after he leaves involve climbing right back into his bed and not leaving until Monday. She can understand the sentiment.

“Do you want to stay awhile?” she asks, unlocking the door. For a moment, he seems unsure, considering his options, and she adds: “I could use the company.”

Those are the magic words he needs to hear. He smiles, nods, and follows her inside, taking care to lock both locks and fix the chain behind him. Scully’s apartment feels the same way it always has, smells like safety and lavender and lemon, and the two of them are asleep on her couch by noon.


End file.
